


Simulacrum

by Davechicken



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: F/M, Implied/fantasised Thrawn/Hera, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 01:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10232747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Thrawn wants to understand Hera.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mallorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/gifts).



To understand the enemy, you had to learn how to think like them. That had always been Mitth'raw'nuruodo’s opinion. He had to crawl right into their little minds, to understand what made them tick. To know what their hidden weaknesses were, their obsessions, their drives, their flaws.

Of course, the easiest way for him to understand motive had always been _motif_. The way a culture would show its bias through the subject-matter of its artwork. Some think that art exists for itself alone - with no real meaning - but Thrawn knows better. Art is a _language_ , a conversation. In the rendering of the self, one could see how the artist envisaged their place in the galaxy. In the features they prized, or the colours they favoured. Art wasn’t just for the emotions it could stir, it was to _tell a tale:_ this is what matters. This is who I am. This is who I want to be. _This is what I fear_.

His fingers stroke the Kalikori, following the swirls and patterns, testing the joints. He wonders which of her ancestors made which marks, but what he cannot shake is one thought: what would she add? What would she have added, had he never taken it from her family line? What would she add now, if he gave it back to her?

He’s seen the marks that her compatriot leaves, her handiwork marking territory as only a Mandalorian could. It’s like a beast pissing all over, scent-marking the ground, giving away more than just her path. Wren wants the galaxy to notice her, but Hera…

(When did she become ‘Hera’? When did she stop being ‘Captain Syndulla’?)

He wants to know her. The image in the portrait is incomplete. It shows a younger her, and a version of her that her parents wanted the galaxy to see. She’s filtered through a prism, through the eyes of the artist, and the commissioner. It isn’t her own voice that speaks from the tint, it’s someone else’s. She is - as her ship - a _Ghost_. And he doesn’t like not knowing more. He _needs_ to know more. He needs to know it all.

***

The one they bring him looks very like her, or to his Chiss eyes, anyway. The skin is the same colour, and the clothing they put her in - a pilot’s garb - is close enough. She hasn’t asked questions, but he sees the curious furrow of her brow.

 _Play your part_. Did they tell her nothing? _Adapt the tones of a slave. Act submissive._

That’s how she had appeared to him, when they met. A proud woman in disguise, muddling her self into a fiction. A piece of theatre, a story, a lie.

She comes in with the ewer of water, her head dipped low. This woman - he doesn’t know her name, nor does he care to - is an imperfect canvas, but at least a willing one. He can see that in the way she glances at him, her lower lip pulled into her mouth. She must have volunteered.

Does she think this will earn her favour? Does she expect to become his pet? This is merely a re-enactment, so he can run simulations. It isn’t intended as anything _deeper_. Thrawn does not do ‘favourites’, except in his gallery. He enjoys the challenge of a keen mind, but none are keen enough to last for long.

The woman’s burr is almost right, and he is amused by how readily they take to this: both to the deception of acting as another, and to the arts of a courtesan. It is barely any time since the Empire took control, and already they morph and melt into what they think will save them. So ready to bend and twist their bodies to survive. 

She pours him water, and he runs his knuckles up her spine. 

“Does it bother you?” he asks.  


“…no, Sir, it does not, Sir.”  


“You don’t even know what I am asking of you.”  


She freezes, her muscles locking for a moment with fear. He likes that, despite himself, but it isn’t her he wishes to frighten. She is nothing, compared to the real prize. 

“I am sorry, Sir.”  


He slides his hand over her shoulder, pushing the fabric slightly to one side, to see how she reacts. He expects Hera would have tried to break his wrist by now, and been choked on his blaster. Yes, that would look good. He unhooks it, even though it is a primitive need. He could break every bone in her body without ruffling the lines of his suit, but she doesn’t know that. 

He slides the muzzle between her thighs, and grinds it lightly at her sex. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asks.  


Her hands shake when she holds him the glass of water, and he wonders if she enjoys the thrill of danger. His other hand leaves her neck, and takes the glass. He swirls it around, and keeps the blaster between her thighs. She’s holding very still, and he closes his eyes to savour the cool liquid.

Hera would fight back.

“Aren’t you disgusted by me?” he asks.  


She isn’t sure. She isn’t sure of her role, and what is expected of her. She also isn’t sure of _herself_ , because she came here, when they looked for someone suitable. He made sure it was _volunteers_ , because one who was utterly unwilling would be too much trouble. He felt… something. Some connection with Hera, and he needs that to continue for this simulacrum to work.

Not a perfect, blank canvas, but close enough.

“I am here to serve.”  


Hera would have bitten back by now, and the thought makes an unusual shot of anger course through him. The blaster presses harder, and he puts the glass down as calmly as he can manage. Her fingers tighten on the ewer, and she looks over her shoulder, her lekku twitching with the first signs of her arousal.

_Fight back._

“You Twi’leks enjoy being slaves.”  


That does catch at something in her, and he’s gratified by the micro-expressions on her face. Rage, disappointment, self-loathing, disgust. Yes. Closer. He finds the seam at the top of her servant’s clothing, pulling it down, baring her back. 

“You accept the superiority of those above you. I sit in your ancestral throne, and you know I belong.”  


A brief, inward-shooting ache. He - like many of the Twi’lek - is… _other_. His form may mirror the Human ‘ideal’, but his skin-tone (and his eyes) do not. He is somewhere between the two, and he knows that. Even his name - melodic and dancing - is cut short to fit their mould.

But this is not about him, it is about _her_. Or rather, the ‘she’ who is not here, not now. This is a continuation of an opening gambit, and he wants to be ready for their rematch. 

Her hips twitch over his blaster-hand, her sex sliding subtly against the metal. She isn’t looking at him, and he sees the familiar colour of shame mix with her arousal. She’s getting wet, he can tell, and she’s fighting it. 

“Tell me you enjoy this.”  


Either the role, or her inner demons speak up, and they speak in tongues of silence. Her body stiffens, then her breath catches, but she doesn’t admit to it, even though they both know.

For a moment - just a moment - it _could_ be her. But then the moment passes, and her legs spread wider.

(Would she? Could he ever tame her? Could he ever purr into her cheek, and wash over her resistance?)

It’s a fantasy, but it’s one that he enjoys thinking of. His blaster is put away, and she’s left bereft, and wanting. Her eyes are hazy when she looks over her shoulder, and his eyes flit to the ewer, then to the table.

Ever the quick one, the girl puts the vessel down, and moves to stand between him and the chair. She lifts her rump obediently, and drops her weight onto her shoulders, giving him a show. 

It’s pitiful, in a way. She really does want him, and that almost sours it for him. Would Hera ever? Would she accept the baser instincts in her? Would her noble, bleeding, ‘rebel’ heart refuse to accept this defeat?

Thrawn is angry again, and he clasps his hand between the woman’s thighs. She’s dripping, and he feels it through the fabric. He rubs and strokes, and grabs both lekku in one hand, squeezing enough to hurt. It makes her gasp and start to grind in earnest, and he wonders if pain will get her off. Wonders if the degradation is enough, as he slips the fastener all the way down, and shoves his hand over her ass, and bends his fingers in to test the depths.

Twi’lek women are so very, very responsive. He’s read all about them, even though he’s never touched one like this before. Their erogenous zones are just inside their entrances, and it’s the penetration that they enjoy most of all. He denies her that, stroking all around her soaking hole and over her warm lips. He rubs where a Human’s clitoris would be, knowing she won’t feel the same benefit. He’s never touched a Human, either, but reminding her of her inferiority is important. 

The woman’s breath is broken, and her moans slip back to her native accent. He growls, pulling on those head-tails hard. “ _Stay in the story_.”

She can’t nod, but she mumbles her understanding, and then breaks out a: “ _Don’t_.”

“Don’t… what? Take you in front of the painting of your parents? Whatever would they say, Captain? What would they say if they saw you presenting for mounting, like a simple herdbeast in heat?”  


Her hands claw the desk, and her embarrassment makes her whimper. So delicious, and he could almost believe it’s _her_. His fingers dip into her, and thrust to urge her desire on, feeling the way her body pulls him into itself. She’s shaking with lust, but he doesn’t… it’s not… quite enough.

She isn’t who he wants, and he punishes her with a quick, rough climax. The kind that will make her cunt ache for hours, as his fingers split her near in half. When she’s done twitching, he withdraws his hand, and wipes it on her clothing. 

“You will learn to do better,” he says, sitting back. “Study the woman in that portrait. _Become_ her. And then you will earn… my favour.”  


It isn’t true. Probably.

She gathers herself up, nodding, and waddles from the room. 

He’s still no closer to understanding Hera Syndulla, but he knows himself more closely, which is even more important. He stares at the Kalikori, and he can’t bring himself to add the woman’s juices to it. 

When it’s her. Then he will.


End file.
